by M C Beaton
‘I’m all right,’ said Agatha. ‘I need to get away and think. I might give up the agency altogether.’
Mrs Bloxby looked appalled. ‘And put all your staff out of work in the middle of a recession!’
‘Well, maybe that is a bit extreme. I’ll be all right when I get away for a break.’
‘Have you ever heard about taking yourself with you? You can’t get rid of your problems by running away.’
‘Spare me the psychobabble.’
Mrs Bloxby gathered up her handbag and stood up. ‘I’m off. Call me if you need me.’
Agatha was appalled when she realized she had been rude to her best friend. Then she thought, oh, what does it all matter? Nobody needs me. I must get away.
Two weeks later, Agatha sat in a café opposite the Blue Mosque in Istanbul feeling like a new woman. She had been to beauty salons, hairdressers and masseurs. Her hip had not ached once. The weather was sunny and mild. She had plenty of books to read and was in the grip of Eric Ambler’s Journey Into Fear.
Her jealousy of Toni, her shocks at the attempts on her life seemed to have sailed away down the Bosphorus. At one point, she glanced up from her book and became aware that a man at a table opposite was watching her. He was tall with hooded eyes, a beaky nose and a firm mouth. He had thick brown hair, beautifully cut, although his dark suit looked worn.
He smiled, and for some reason Agatha found herself smiling back. He rose and came to join her. ‘American?’ he asked.
‘No, English,’ said Agatha. ‘Are you a tourist?’
‘No, I live in Istanbul.’
‘Your English is excellent.’
‘Thank you. Is that a very good book?’
‘Excellent.’
‘Then I’ll leave you in peace to read it.’
To Agatha’s surprise, he did not go away, but sat down again. He lit a cigarette, leaned back in his chair and surveyed the passing crowds.
The muezzins began the call to prayer.
Agatha stopped reading. She was suddenly hungry. She picked up the menu on the table.
‘I’ll take you to lunch,’ said her companion.
‘Why?’
‘You interest me.’
‘Is this a pickup?’ demanded Agatha.
‘Meaning what?’
‘Are you trying to get off with me?’
‘I don’t understand that either. Would I like to get to know you better? Yes. Just lunch.’
‘Oh, all right,’ said Agatha.
They walked across the square, over the tramlines and into a dark cellar-type restaurant.
‘You’d better order,’ said Agatha. ‘My knowledge of Turkish food is pretty much limited to kebab.’
The meal was delicious, starting with a cheese pastry as light as a feather followed by lamb cooked slowly in the oven with raisins. Outside, the sunlit crowd flowed up and down.
He had asked Agatha what she did and her descriptions of her detective prowess took up much of the meal. And as she talked, she could feel her old confidence in her abilities returning.
She refused a dessert and settled for coffee instead but decided against drinking brandy because she had already drunk quite a lot of wine.
‘What do you do?’ she asked.
‘I’m a civil servant. I work for the government.’
‘Which branch?’
‘The tax office.’
‘And are you usually allowed such a lot of time off work?’
‘I’m taking a few days’ leave.’
‘Are you married?’ asked Agatha bluntly.
‘Was. Got divorced five years ago. You?’
‘Divorced as well. What is your name?’
‘Mustafa Kemal. And you?’
‘Agatha Raisin.’
‘That’s a funny name.’
‘What’s funny about it?’
‘Raisin. Those wrinkly dried grapes. No, don’t scowl. A pretty woman like you should not scowl.’
‘Tell me about the tax office,’ said Agatha.
‘There’s not much to tell. It is very boring.’
‘Did you ever think of getting another job?’
‘Not really. My family were so proud of me. My mother was a dressmaker and my father, a labourer. I was the first to go to university. Now I am too old to change.’
‘How old are you?’
‘Fifty-four.’
‘That’s not too old to change!’
‘Agatha, as far as jobs are concerned, it’s too old anywhere.’
After lunch he escorted her to her hotel and asked her if she would like to have dinner with him that evening. Agatha happily agreed.
She spent the rest of the day wrapped in rosy dreams of being married in Istanbul. No more detective work. No more feelings of failure. Mustafa obviously thought her a very attractive woman. She felt young again, full of anticipation.
And when he saw her in the foyer of the hotel wearing a black dress, slit up one side to reveal one shapely leg, and his eyes lit up with admiration, Agatha glowed.
He drove her up to the old fire tower which dominates the skyline of Istanbul. On the road there, Agatha, looking out of the car window, saw Erol Fehim, the man who had helped her before.
‘Stop the car,’ she shouted. ‘I think I’ve seen someone I know.’
But he did not seem to hear her and drove on. When they reached the fire tower, they climbed the stairs to the restaurant. They had a table by the window. The view was stunning. Down below, a fountain sparkled in the Golden Horn and there was a magnificent panorama of the palaces and minarets of the great city.
Dinner included a floor show of mainly traditional Turkish acts. The show started with a too-thin belly dancer whose act seemed to go on forever. Then there was a Black Sea troupe who balanced knives on their noses and threw them at a target. It was very loud and noisy and conversation was limited.
Agatha excused herself and went in search of the toilets. She had a sudden desire to share the news that she was in love. She was so sure she was in love.
She phoned Mrs Bloxby and told her the news. ‘When did you meet him?’ asked the vicar’s wife.
‘Just today.’
‘Mrs Raisin!’
‘No, this is the real thing.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Mustafa Kemal.’
There was a little silence and then Mrs Bloxby said, ‘That’s odd.’
‘What’s odd?’
‘Mustafa Kemal was the name of Ataturk, the founder of modern Turkey. Are you sure it isn’t another of Sylvan Dubois’s associates?’
Agatha felt suddenly cold. ‘I’ll call you back.’ She thought about how easily she had been picked up. She clung on to the handbasin, feeling dizzy. Then she straightened up and squared her shoulders. She accosted the first waiter at the entrance to the restaurant and hissed, ‘Call the police.’
He looked at her, puzzled, and then signalled to the maître d’, who listened to her demand for the police. ‘He’s an impostor and he’s out to kill me,’ said Agatha desperately. ‘I’ll go back and join him but don’t alert him.’
She went back to the table, a smile pinned on her face. There was another noisy act and she was glad that it was impossible to speak.
In record time, two policemen and one policewoman entered the restaurant. Agatha heaved a sigh of relief as the maître d’ pointed at their table.
To Agatha’s amazement, the two policemen began to laugh, although the policewoman looked grim.
They all spoke in rapid Turkish and then Mustafa was led away while the policewoman took his place. ‘Come outside with me,’ she said in English.
Agatha followed her out and down the stairs. ‘There is a café over there where we can talk,’ she said. ‘Don’t tell them I said anything. I said I would stay behind to comfort you.’
‘What’s it all about?’ asked Agatha.
‘Who did he say he was?’
‘A tax inspector called Mustafa Kemal.’
&
nbsp; ‘He is a police inspector from Karakoy, taking a few days’ holiday. His name is Demir Oguz and he is married with six children. He is a famous seducer of women. I am sorry. Of course my male colleagues think it is all very funny. What made you call us?’
Agatha wearily told her the story of Sylvan Dubois and the subsequent attempt on her life. She ended by saying, ‘I don’t think I’m any kind of detective at all. I should have recognized his name as fake.’
‘You are a woman in a foreign country,’ said the policewoman. ‘It was an easy mistake to make. Now I will take you back to your hotel.’
‘Your English is excellent,’ said Agatha.
‘That’s why I was brought. When they heard an Englishwoman had called us, they took me with them.’
‘Why does the police inspector have such good English as well?’
‘His wife is from Manchester – poor thing.’
Back in her hotel room, Agatha sank down on the edge of the bed and eased off her high heels. What a fool she had been! She remembered the chance meeting with Erol and how he had turned out to be such a gentleman. Perhaps that was why she had accepted the invitation from the fake tax inspector so easily.
Suddenly the idea of giving up detective work flooded her brain with relief. No more shocks and alarms. No more nasty divorce cases. She would make Toni, Patrick and Phil joint owners. She would settle down in the village and potter about.
She rose to her feet and began to pack. She did not want to stay any longer in Istanbul in case she ran into whatever his name was again.
‘You’re going to do what?’ demanded Sir Charles Fraith.
Agatha had arrived home to find her friend in residence.
‘You heard. I’m fed up with the whole thing.’
‘But what will you do?’
‘I came down to the Cotswolds to retire and that is exactly what I am going to do now.’
‘You’ll die of boredom. What happened in Istanbul?’
‘Nothing.’
‘But you’re back early?’
‘The weather turned cold.’
Charles studied her face. ‘Now why do you look exactly like a woman disappointed in love?’
‘Stop fantasizing. I am going into the office to break the news to them. It will give me a wonderful feeling of freedom.’
‘For a couple of days,’ said Charles cynically.
Agatha called her staff to meet in the office at 5 p.m. They were all there when she arrived – Toni, Phil, Patrick, Mrs Freedman and the two relative newcomers, Paul Kenson and Fred Auster.
She replied briefly to questions about her holiday and then said, ‘I have decided to retire.’
‘Why?’ asked Toni.
‘I need some quality time. You, Toni, Patrick and Phil, will become joint owners. Paul, Fred, Sharon and Mrs Freedman, you will continue to work as usual.’
After the first exclamations of dismay were over, Toni began to feel quite cheerful. She always felt that Agatha was looking over her shoulder. Paul and Fred each privately thought it would be a relief to have bossy Agatha out of the way. Patrick accepted it philosophically. Phil was genuinely distressed. He was in his seventies and felt he owed a lot to Agatha for having hired a man of his age. Thanks to her, he had been able to find a comfortable life with little treats which he could not otherwise have afforded on his pension alone.
‘Are you having a retirement party?’ asked Toni.
‘No,’ said Agatha. ‘I’ll just leave quietly.’
And to their amazement, that is exactly what Agatha did.
Epilogue
BACK AT HER cottage, Agatha found Charles had left. He had written a message in lipstick on her bathroom mirror: ‘Big Mistake!’ Agatha crossly wiped it off.
She decided to visit Mrs Bloxby. But the meeting of the Carsely Ladies’ Society was in full swing. Agatha blinked in surprise. It was so long now since she had attended a meeting that she barely knew anyone. Particularly with the credit crunch and people unable to pay their mortgages, the population of all Cotswold villages was shifting and changing. Apart from Miss Simms, Carsely’s unmarried mother, and still secretary of the group, it was hard to hear one Gloucestershire accent.
The incomers, from their clothes and accents, were obviously well off. Fresh from the towns, they were all determined to play the part of village ladies – all to the benefit of Mrs Bloxby, who had new blood to fund her various charities.
Agatha was a celebrity but the newcomers ignored that fact. Each one, with the exception of Miss Simms and Mrs Bloxby, seemed determined to outdo the others in becoming the leading lady of the village.
I’m one of them now, thought Agatha gloomily, so I may as well make the best of it. But over tea and cakes after a discussion on raising funds for the Red Cross, the women seemed to vie with one another over material possessions. ‘We’re having a sauna,’ said one, and another chimed in with ‘We’re having a swimming pool put in the old barn.’ Mrs Bloxby anxiously studied Agatha’s downcast face.
When the meeting was over, Mrs Bloxby whispered, ‘Do stay, Mrs Raisin.’
But when the other women saw Agatha settling back in her chair, with the exception of Miss Simms, they all sat down again.
‘I’ll leave and come back,’ whispered Agatha.
She went out and walked around the village. Rain was falling steadily and the evening was chilly. Miss Simms tottered beside her on her high heels. ‘It’s not the same at all,’ she complained. ‘Lot of toffee-nosed slags. Are you going to walk all night?’
‘Maybe,’ said Agatha.
‘Then I’m off.’
When Agatha felt she had spent enough time out in the cold, she returned to the vicarage.
‘What a shower!’ she exclaimed, parking her umbrella in the stand in the hall.
‘Shower? It’s been raining steadily,’ said Mrs Bloxby, helping her off with her coat.
‘I didn’t mean the weather,’ grumbled Agatha. ‘I meant your new members.’
‘Oh, they’ll adjust. Newcomers are always bitten by the village-dream bug,’ said the vicar’s wife. ‘They’ll soon settle down. At the moment, it’s very nice for me because they compete in the size of their donations to charity. You are looking quite miserable. What about your holiday?’
‘I’ll tell you about it,’ said Agatha, sinking down on to the sofa in the living room, ‘but if you tell anyone else, I’ll have to kill you.’
‘As bad as that?’
‘Worse.’
As Agatha told her about the police inspector, Mrs Bloxby tried hard not to laugh but eventually collapsed into giggles. ‘You’re being a bit cruel,’ said Agatha huffily.
‘Please don’t be angry,’ said Mrs Bloxby. ‘I haven’t laughed in ages.’
‘I’ve given up the detective agency.’
‘Surely not because of one silly man in Istanbul?’
‘It’s not that. The Sylvan case finished me. I just blundered around while others showed their intelligence.’
‘Is Toni the trouble?’
‘Why should she be?’
‘She’s bright and photogenic. You were used before her arrival to always being the one in the newspapers.’
‘I’ve lost confidence and I really want to get away from it all.’
‘But what will you do?’
‘Settle down, read, travel, lots of things.’
‘I could do with your expert help.’
‘At what?’
‘I am planning a charity drive for the local regiment. They are being sent out to Afghanistan and they need lots of things, from paperbacks to shaving cream. I got a whole list from the adjutant.’
‘What have you done so far?’
‘We’ve put a box outside the village shop for people to leave things.’
‘Such as?’
‘There’s a list pinned up. Shaving cream, razors, paperbacks, all sorts of things.’
‘I’ll have a look when I’m next at the shop and see if I can think of s
omething,’ said Agatha.
The next morning Agatha strolled along to the shop. She bought some shaving cream and disposable razors and threw them in the box outside.
‘You are Mrs Raisin, aren’t you?’ said a male voice behind her. Agatha swung round. A tall man stood looking down at her. He had thick grey hair, glasses and a clever face. ‘I am new in the village,’ he said. ‘May I introduce myself? My name is Bob Jenkins.’
Agatha looked up at him warily. The fear that Sylvan might send someone else after her still haunted her. She did not sleep well at nights, thinking every rustle in the thatch was someone on the roof, looking for a way in.
‘I hear you are a detective,’ he said. His voice was warm and pleasant.
‘Not any longer,’ said Agatha. ‘I’ve given all that up.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s too long a story.’
‘I am on my way to the Red Lion. They’ve started serving coffee in the mornings. Care to join me?’
Agatha hesitated. There was nothing sinister-looking about him. Surely nothing could happen to her in her own village and at the local pub.
‘All right,’ she said cautiously.
Seated over coffee in the outdoor smoking section of the pub, Bob told her he had recently moved into the village.
‘What brought you to Carsely?’ asked Agatha.
‘Retirement. I was a schoolteacher for years. I thought it would be marvellous to get away from noisy classes and difficult children. But I find time hanging heavily on my hands. I need a hobby or something.’
‘Don’t you have a wife?’ asked Agatha.
‘My wife died ten years ago.’
‘Children?’
‘One son in Australia.’
‘Aren’t you tempted to go out and join him?’
‘He’s married and his wife doesn’t like me much. Never mind about all that. Why did you give up detecting?’
Agatha did not want to explain it was because she felt like a failure. She said instead that she had wanted to enjoy some quality time.
‘And what will you do?’ he asked.
Agatha smiled. ‘Find a hobby, just like you.’
He laughed. ‘We could fish.’
‘Boring.’
‘Hunt?’
‘Can’t ride.’
‘Agatha – may I call you Agatha?’
